


Come Out With Your Hands Up High

by dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magic Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-26 19:26:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kidnapping is all too current an occurrence for Sheriff Stilinski nowadays. But spell casting is one bit of the supernatural he hadn't quite got his mind around just yet. Especially when it's directed at him and his partner in kidnapping, Chris Argent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Out With Your Hands Up High

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta, Kelleigh, and all the encouragement from people. I love this pairing so much. So thanks to patchcat for the wonderful prompt of "Why is it always witches?!"

For all that Melissa had shared a certain amount of information (and he knew Stiles had too, but he’d been too busy trying to work out whether he needed to get Stiles locked up or if all he needed was a better therapist to really listen), John was unprepared for how much crap was out there.. The crash course in werewolves had been illuminating even if it had missed out that there would be other things hunting him down and trying to get him.

And even though he knew it was bad English to use ‘get’, there was no other way to put it. Creatures of the night (and the day, and whenever the hell they wanted) had a real varied way of trying to maim, eat, transform, kidnap and just plain kill him, Stiles and everyone else in Beacon Hills. It was bad enough that Scott’s dad was lurking around the fringes with his badge and his “I’m with the FBI” thing that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. He’d never liked McCall, not when he was married to Melissa, not when they’d had to work together in the past when John had been a deputy. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that he knew more than McCall did these days. But none of that was doing him any good right now.

This latest villain with designs on him had gone for the whole ‘blow some weird powder into his face’ and kidnapping combo. He hoped there were enough clues back at the station for Stiles to realize he hadn’t just stepped out to track some traffic misdemeanors or something. John guessed the chances of that were probably increased when he realized he was handcuffed back to back with someone. It was more comfortable than a chair. Or a wooden beam. Or a radiator.

Too much kidnapping.

“You okay?” The figure behind him was roughly his height and width, suggesting a guy. Whoever it was hadn’t moved, slumping down. At least he could feel the person breathing. “Any chance of waking up soon?”

Maybe Scott would be able to sniff them out. This was probably some kind of a trap for him. Although, since he couldn’t feel curls against the back of his neck, he would guess that his partner in kidnapping wasn’t Melissa. He’d listened while Stiles explained that Derek wasn’t an alpha anymore, which was something to do with his eyes and Cora, and that Scott was. But Scott hadn’t killed anyone. This was, he supposed, something of a positive, but hinted that there was entirely too much death in Stiles’ life. Yet another problem to add to the pile of things he really wished he didn’t have to think about.

The person behind him started to stir. “Hello?”

There was silence – shocked silence – and the figure stiffened. Then a very familiar voice started cursing. Extensively. Impressively. 

“So, Chris, how are you today?” 

 

Chris Argent was a handy man to have in a kidnapping crisis. Despite his failure to get himself, and by extension John and Melissa, free the first time they’d been tied up together, he had a multitude of pockets and secret compartments with a scary variety of weaponry and lock picking accoutrements around his person. John would be more scared if it didn’t mean he was able to shake the blood back into his hands and rub at the raw marks the handcuffs had made within three minutes of Chris regaining consciousness.

Of course, luck wasn’t entirely going their way.

“There’s some kind of invisible barrier here,” Chris said, his waving hands making the air shimmer ever so slightly. He stretched up, his shirt lifting and exposing scarred skin at his narrow hips, the cut of his groin. John glanced away, suddenly aware he was staring. A prickle ran under his skin, raw, unidentifiable. Desperate to distract himself, John started walking around the room, testing the boundaries of the barrier. They were in a basement, as far as he could tell, a small blocked-up row of windows suggesting they were underground. It was also cool and smelled damp and earthy. The floor was concrete, and there were the rusted remains of shelving units resting against the blank grey walls, threatening to fall. A plain wooden door seemed to be the only way in or out.

The barrier seemed to stretch in a circle wide enough to allow them to sprawl out on the ground, something they did after it was clear no punching or kicking or stabbing with any of the weaponry that Chris pulled from his pockets was going to have an effect. Throwing one of the knives at it even created a dangerous ricochet. On the other hand, there didn’t seem to be any of that dust – some kind of ash? – lying in a convenient circle, which suggested this trap wasn’t targeted at werewolves. Chris and he seemed to definitely be the intended prey.

“I think the barrier might have a dampening effect, a way of concealing us,” Chris mused, as he tossed one of his emitters between his hands. “I don’t know if sound will pass through either.”

“Why did they tie us up?” If they had such a failsafe magical barrier, it didn’t make sense. 

“It was probably raised later.” Chris sunk down on his elbows and glared at the ceiling like it might have some answers. John was puzzling through the memories of his kidnapping – a knock on the door of his office, a strange woman that no one was paying attention to;he hadn’t thought anything of inviting her in. He had no idea how they’d got from there to here. His memories ended with the reddish powder being blown into his face. He’d been too surprised to hold his breath.

And Stiles hadn’t warned him about strange women, per se. He’d made some comments about magic that John wasn’t entirely comfortable with. “Magic?”

“Yeah. Probably witches. This doesn’t feel like the work of hunters.” Chris shifted closer to him, examining his shirt. “You have some powder…?”

“It was blown in my face.” John bit down an urge to make an inappropriate, ‘that’s not how I like to be blown’ type of joke, but it looked like Chris had a thought along the same lines, from the way his mouth twisted into a wry smile and his eyes ducked down, almost too fast to notice, to John’s crotch. “Any idea what it is?”

“Brown-red?” Chris shook his head. “I’d need to test it to be sure what it was. They got me with something similar.”

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence. Then John leaned back, making himself as comfortable as he could on the cold, hard floor. “So, how’s hunting?”

 

They’d fallen into a fitful discussion of the NFL and Thanksgiving plans when the door opened. The woman from the office earlier swept in, accompanied by a much less dramatic man. An entirely average man, the sort who would be dismissed from memory almost as soon as your eyes passed over him. John sat up, not used to that sort of feeling. His job had long since trained him to pay attention to everyone, and if a person was walking into this basement where he was being held, John needed to notice everything about them. The urge to look away, to not even be aware that there was another person in the space the guy was occupying, couldn’t be natural.

Chris fixed his gaze on the woman, but he kept trying to look at the man. John had half an idea that he was probably the one behind all of this. The woman was frowning at them, a bowl of dark and slightly steaming liquid in her hands. That was ominous.

“Who are you?” Chris directed the question at the woman, his voice even and unconcerned, almost as if he was asking the time of day. His eyes were narrowed, sparking blue, and he had his knife in his hand. The man standing to the left leaned back against the wall and grinned.

“And who are you?” He tucked his thumbs into his belt and tried to copy Chris’ unconcerned attitude. Chris shot him a glance, hiding his surprise rather well. The man was less competent at hiding his shock at being spotted, falling forward out of his slouch and frowning.

“I thought you said they were both completely mundane – no magic.” His voice was just as forgettable as his face, but his female companion flinched away from him as if he’d been yelling at her. She didn’t say anything though, just shook her head, and then tossed the contents of the bowl at them. It passed through the barrier, spattering him and Chris with the inky liquid. John grabbed out as some got into his eyes, holding Chris’ shoulder to ground him as John blinked until he could see again. A shot of heat ran through him, fierce and strong, almost painful, unendurable, until it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Chris shivered under his palm, and then the liquid shone with a weird, dark light before disappearing. His clothes weren’t marked or wet, but John didn’t know what had happened.

From Chris’ frown, it looked like he had more of an idea. He was glaring bleakly at the woman who raised her arm and pointed at them. “Shoot the Sheriff,” she ordered.

Chris brought out his gun from the pocket he’d tucked it into, but instead of pointing it at John, aimed it straight at the woman. She flung her long dark hair over her shoulders, made a series of determined gestures and tried to order Chris to shoot him all over again. Chris didn’t even waver in his stance.

When she started her third repetition, that was, when the door crashed inwards. Scott stood there, eyes red and claws out, his face mainly human still. Allison shoved him into the room, bringing up a crossbow to aim at the woman. Stiles and Isaac were the last though the door. Isaac was further transformed, his eyebrows doing the weird disappearing thing that signaled his plunge into full werewolf. Stiles was just Stiles. He looked around frantically until he saw his dad, and then his entire being just lit up.

Scott howled. Roared. It was loud and echoed around the suddenly much more less spacious room and, with the feeling of a bubble popping, there was a flash of light and the pressure of the barrier fell away. Chris shot his gun, three quick bullets slamming into the woman’s shoulder. The man tried to slide behind some of the shelving units, but Stiles darted along the wall to grab at his shirt and hold him in place. John strode across the floor and cracked the guy in the jaw, taking some satisfaction in the way his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell to the floor.

“Deaton wants to question anyone left,” Isaac said. He’d slid back to human form while Allison checked her father over. Stiles dropped the guy and wrapped his arms around his dad, pretty much doing the same thing. 

“Better take them both,” Chris said. John thought it over and then thought about the paperwork he’d need to fill out to account for it all, the tissue of lies he’d need to weave. But then John grinned at Stiles and said nothing as the werewolves did all the heavy lifting. He kept his arm over Stiles’ shoulder as they negotiated their way up the steps, hungry and thirsty. He was wondering if kidnapping would persuade Stiles to stop at the diner on the way home when he felt an uncomfortable twist in his guts.

Hunger. That’s all it was.

He took another step and the feeling intensified, a hot pain coming through as well. He stumbled, pulling Stiles to a stop. He was clutching his belly although the pain eased as Chris took a step towards him.

“Pain?” He nodded in answer to Chris’ question. “In your gut?”

“Like something was, I don’t know, stabbing?” John gestured in the general direction of where he’d felt the sensation.

Stiles turned around and eyed them both. Then he started to swear both impressively and fluently. Until even Scott looked mildly disturbed, and he had become more and more inured to Stiles and his outbursts. Stiles finally ran out of either air or words. “There was some kind of spell casting going on down there?”

“She threw something at us.” Chris shrugged when Stiles gestured for him to go on. “Glowing liquid.”

Stiles started to swear again. Then he sucked in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Okay. I need to double check with Deaton but I think I read about this last week.”

“Read about what?” Allison asked suspiciously. Isaac came to stand at her shoulder, hovering but not quite touching. Isaac’s hand was outstretched, and John had the sensation that Stiles hadn’t quite filled him in on everything. 

“I think she tried to cast something that would make my dad and your dad sort of slaves to her will.” Stiles waved his hands between them. “But because my dad is a bit like me, you know, I think it went wrong.”

That made him shift his gaze to Stiles who shut his mouth with an audible click. He took a step towards Stiles and felt the tug somewhere south of his navel again. Chris shifted closer to him until John was able to look Stiles right in the eye. He sighed and Stiles threw up his hands. “Magic. We have a potential magic thing. Deaton knows all about it.”

“Then we’re going to speak to Deaton.” There was no budging in Chris’ voice for all that he spoke softly.

 

Deaton was as enigmatic as ever as he looked between them. He didn't grin, which made him happy at least. It was really all John could do to stop himself from wearily banging his head over and over on the metal counter in front of him.

Stiles had his phone out and was texting frantically as Deaton flicked through some books without grinning. "Who are you texting, son?" John’s voice definitely conveyed some of the frustration and exhaustion he felt. Getting hit on the head was never good for his energy levels. He wanted to drink a beer, a whiskey, settle down in front of the TV and switch off his brain. 

Stiles looked guilty for a moment, his eyes flicking between Scott and his dad before he shrugged. "Derek. I just wanted to let him know." Stiles shrugged as Scott frowned. John didn't want to ask. He knew things between them and Derek weren't as great as they'd been since Peter.

"That's nice, son, but it'd be great if _we_ knew what was going on." He tried to look impressively and coolly at Deaton, but Deaton could out-enigma him any day of the week. He was like some kind of owl or a cat. John hated cats.

"You're linked," Deaton said. "I can't tell for how long, but physical proximity seems necessary."

"These spells tend to have two types, right?" Stiles was eyeing the book Deaton had taken away from him with a frown. "Not that I’ve read about it already. Magic is bad." Stiles had on his most innocent face which meant he probably had copies of the book tucked into the box in his closet where he also kept his porn. 

Deaton was obviously aware of what Stiles was like. "One that needs to be broken and one that wears off."

"And this one?" Chris looked like he'd rather be carrying out this interrogation at gunpoint rather than civilly. He was poised, his shoulders tight. He looked ready to run. John stretched out his arm and laid it on Chris' shoulder. It felt solid and _good_ under his palm. He could feel himself relaxing, and the irritation he'd been feeling towards Deaton and Stiles and the world in general seemed to diminish. Chris looked less murderous as well.

"I think we should aim to break the spell regardless." Deaton nodded. "You should probably stick together until I've come up with a solution."

Chris looked at Deaton before shifting his eyes down to look at where John's hand was still pressed against his side. John was reluctant to lift his hand, but he did, and then he felt all the anger and frustration just sweep back in. Chris looked startled for a moment before leaning closer and pressing his shoulder against John's. Tiny, incremental movements, nothing too out of the ordinary, no matter what Stiles' eyes flicking between them suggested.

They took the same car, unable to move more than a few feet apart without the beginnings of that overwhelming pain threatening them. John had just shrugged and slid into the passenger seat of Chris' SUV while Chris raced the last few feet to get into his seat. John didn't even think about it before he laid his hand on Chris' thigh and squeezed gently. Chris' breathing lost its ragged edge and he started the car.

"Beer?" Chris suggested, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"And pizza?" They shared a glance. Chris cracked a grin, wide and mildly toothy. Allison probably nagged him about his diet just like Stiles did about his. He nodded and drove back to John's house while he phoned in the order. Stiles was staying with Deaton to be a research assistant while Allison, Isaac and Scott were off gathering evidence. The house was cool and blessedly quiet.

 

It became easier to sit side by side, to share the pizza, obviously, but also because the distance that they could stand to be apart seemed to decrease as the evening wore on. The compromise of having shoulders, arms and legs pressed together made the now constant undercurrent of pain and frustration disappear while they ate, sipped a couple of beers and watched some program about big cats on Animal Planet.

John was feeling looser by the time his bare forearm accidentally brushed across Chris' skin. Then he had to try it again. The feeling that passed between them was the opposite of the nauseating pain from earlier. It was still centered low in his belly, but it was warm and satisfying and embarrassing. It sent a pulse of something ecstatic through him. 

Chris' eyes were wide and his grin had utterly vanished when he looked at John. "This is bad."

"Why?" Sometimes he felt that the urge to remain on the sidelines of the supernatural business, letting Derek and Chris take point until he needed to step in to make sure Stiles was safe, was causing him to be in more danger than not.

"Whatever the spell was - or the version of the spell that ended up hitting us, at any rate - whatever it was, it wants us to get even closer. It's rewarding us." Chris pressed his hand against John's bare forearm, holding it tight. The feeling of sheer pleasure that had come from the other touch was nothing in comparison to the overwhelming need to keep going, to never stop.

"Oh." That seemed an inadequate response, but he was willing to go with it. John sucked in a deep breath, letting out a breathier sigh, a longer ‘oh’.

"Yeah." Chris seemed to be having some difficulty breathing. He let go, keeping his knee pressed against John's. It wasn't enough. It wasn't just the cessation of the pleasure but the fact that pain followed on its heels with no relief. He grabbed onto Chris' arm, the corded muscle relaxing under his touch.

"We should tell the kids," John suggested. He wanted it to stop. The pleasure was as bad as the pain had been, in its own way. The real problem was that it could become addictive quickly. It matched the best free-floating feeling of five beers and no worries with something sharper. 

It wasn't like he was a complete monk. It would be a lie to say that he hadn't flirted, gone on a couple of awful dates. No one could match up to Claudia though, and he still felt naked without his wedding ring. The fact that witches were making him consider pushing up Chris' shirt, peeling off his own to see what being pressed chest to chest felt like, was treading into an area that went beyond simple life-saving-because-of-the-supernatural crap. It was leading him into all kinds of temptation.

Chris' grin was uneasy now as they tried to watch more of the pointless TV show. John had to work at trying to ignore the flush on Chris' cheeks, the way sweat was beading in the hollow of his throat, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed, strong and capable. That John had looked, had noticed in the past, only made stopping harder.

Chris reached out for his phone, tapped in a text and then flung it onto the coffee table, all without breaking contact. That was helped by John turning into him, rolling against him, feeling Chris hard and stiff and warm against him.

They sat in their loose embrace, trying to watch the television, until the pain started up again. Chris swore. “Shirts off?” His order was definitely more of a question.

John nodded, his hands already going to the waist of Chris’ henley. “Better if we do each other. Maintain contact.” The pain diminished again as he slid his hands up under the cloth, feeling the scratch of hair across Chris’ taut belly. Chris let out a soft gasp as he carefully unbuttoned John’s shirt, knuckles warm against his undershirt. John would never be able to explain afterwards how he and Chris went from not-so-innocently undressing each other to kissing, mouths hard and slick. 

The undercurrent of the spell swirled through him, heat and pleasure and something acid and sharp too. But John was mainly aware of Chris’ hands clutching his shoulders, Chris’ scarred skin smooth and rough and muscled under his own palms. There was an odd metallic taste in his mouth, like old blood, too much meat, but he ignored all that, pushing forward until he had Chris under him, flat against the sofa cushions, legs hitching around his hips.

Chris pulled back, control seized with an effort. John found it hard to concentrate, harder to focus on whatever Chris was saying. He started mouthing his way down Chris’ neck, feeling the spell swell under his skin as he brushed his teeth gently across Chris’ jugular. It was the need to bite down that made him pull back and throw himself across the room to the other chair. The pain overwhelmed him for a moment before he got control of himself. It was easier to maintain an appropriate level of attention over here.

“Are you okay?” Chris was asking.

“Not really. I wanted to-“ John didn’t know how to phrase it. “I wanted to bite down. Eat you.” He knew the grossed out expression on Chris’ face mirrored his own. “I wanted you in me.”

Chris and he looked at each other for a moment and then groaned with frustrated laughter. John couldn’t believe he’d even said that, and he felt the blush on his face intensify as he ran a hand over his mouth. “I got an easier way to do that,” Chris said. 

For a moment, neither of them knew where to look. Then their eyes met and Chris nodded slightly. John felt his heart beat a little faster in anticipation.

“What will the spell do?” John asked after a moment.

Chris’ phone chimed. He picked it up and checked it. “Allison says Deaton thinks he’s close to breaking it. We should try to stay close and it will all be over soon.”

“Stay close, huh?” John dug his fingers into the arms of the chair. The pain was back again, making him want to launch himself across the room at Chris, press up against him. But the idea of sex, of fucking, was also tempting him to move. Chris let out a groan, winced and then pushed himself up out of the clutch of the cushions.

“Let’s do this. Better than waiting for the spell to turn us feral.” Chris held out his hand. “You got stuff?”

“Stiles does.” And that was a mindfuck, stealing sex supplies from your virginal, seventeen year old son. At least, virginal last time he’d checked, after hearing bitter and extensive complaining from Stiles about Scott and Isaac and Allison and a weird too much information insinuation about their private lives. “You sure?”

Chris didn’t drop his hand. In fact, he seemed to stretch it out farther. A lazy grin, wicked, spread across his face and he nodded again. That was good enough for John. He crossed the space between them as quickly as he could. The cessation of pain was almost as good as the wave of delirium that rushed through him as he pressed against Chris to kiss him. He felt the cool metal of Chris’ wedding band as he ran his hand down John’s vertebrae, but it was more like another tantalizing sensation thana reminder of what had happened to their wives.

The stairs weren’t an obstacle, although splitting up while John ran into Stiles’ room and pilfered his stash was uncomfortable. However, it was almost as if the spell could understand their intentions as it hovered near bearable as they stripped off the remainder of their clothing. John hesitated a moment before tugging the shades closed on his window. It wasn’t like he had neighbors who could see in. It was more that he found the whole idea of screwing one of Stiles’ friends’ fathers a little bit too much for open curtains and broad daylight.

He stopped thinking quite so much when Chris pressed him back against the bed, and both their bodies seemed more with the program than their brains. The spell seemed to take a back seat for every touch, for every place on Chris he tasted, licked, ran his fingers over. In the end, he spread his legs wide and tried not to blush any further as Chris ran a wet, slick finger around his hole. This was going to be another thing he hadn’t done in a long time struck off the list.

“You sure?” Chris asked, although it looked like it was causing him actual pain to stop, his teeth gritted and his eyes maintaining an intense focus on his fingers rather than on John’s face.

“Yes,” John drawled out, canting up his hips. The slide of the finger made him arch back, and he didn’t even want to think about what he looked like. He didn’t want to think about the thickening around his waist and the way his chest wasn’t as firm as it used to be and the grey hairs he kept finding. Chris knew what he was doing, a welcome distraction, as he twisted his finger, then fingers, and the spell kicked in again, hot and burning this time.

He felt empty when Chris pulled out, his hips still rocking down, trying to ride Chris’ escaping hand. He sat up, determined not to break skin to skin contact, and John ended up helping to roll on the condom. Chris’ eyes looked glazed as they added more lube, and he’d lost whatever calm control he’d been maintaining. His kisses turned fierce, hard, as he bore John back against the sheets and took himself in hand. “Gonna…”

“Yeah.” It felt right to encourage Chris, felt right to give permission. John tried not to worry whether the spell was making them do this or whether it was perhaps something they might have come to on their own. Chris full on growled against his neck as he slid in, his cock thick and solid and burning. It was a bad plan not to wait until he’d adjusted – John was certainly going to feel this tomorrow – as Chris started rocking back and forth and the spell once more reached a crescendo, hot and good and addictive. The rub of Chris’ abs against his own neglected cock was just enough of a counterpoint to the feel of stretch and burn and right that resulted from his short, sharp thrusts.

A shift, Chris hitching one of his legs higher, and then everything became so much better. Chris really was good at this, fucking him with a determined expression, bottom lip caught between his teeth. John found himself watching that rather than the heave of their bodies, as much as he could between the urge to close his eyes and just give in to the whole sensation of it all, spell and sex both.

They both felt the moment the spell ended. It was like a bubble popping – increasing pressure which John mistook for his impending orgasm that abruptly ended. The intense pleasure – the overwhelming need to touch Chris as well – vanished. Chris still rolled his hips, almost by reflex, before starting to pull away.

John grabbed him and held on. His cock was still hard between them and Chris was still buried to the hilt in his ass, but he felt better than he had in a while and they’d both said yes, mostly. “Don’t have to stop,” he ground out, voice a hoarse whisper.

“Yeah?” Chris stopped trying to pull back and hovered, lips parted, close, until John hauled him in by a hand at the back of his neck. The kiss this time felt no better or worse than before, although that weird pressure from the spell was gone now. And when Chris started moving again, the edge of pain was gone. Everything was slick, warm and good – so good it took almost no time for John to race towards a much more natural and satisfying precipice.

He let out a “Fuck” as Chris nailed his prostate again and again, and then came so suddenly it was a shock. 

 

They were sticky, sweat-soaked and utterly unwilling to move when John heard the front door open. He and Chris dived for their clothes – for all his muscles protested at the sudden movement – and he had his undershirt on and his pants up around his hips when Stiles burst through the door, Allison wide-eyed on his heels.

Stiles flailed in silence as Chris calmly zipped up his pants. Allison swallowed air for a moment.

“So we’ll just go get some, um, juice. Or coffee.” She spun on her heel and went halfway down the hallway before turning to grab Stiles and tow him out of the room. John heard her reassuring the others down in the kitchen that “they’re fine” in a voice that was only a little high-pitched.

“You can blame everything on the spell.” Chris shrugged, running his hands through his hair to smooth it flat.

“Yeah.” John started buttoning up his shirt. He was definitely too old for werewolves and magic and spells and shit. “Or we could grab a beer.”

“New bar on Grafton?” Chris’ wicked grin was back. “Or will we be hitting Jungle?”

“Only to shut it down,” was his dry response. He stopped putting on more clothes. “You deal with the kids? I’m going to shower because I feel gross.”

“And I’ll see you there on Tuesday. Around nine?” Chris scrubbed his hand at the back of his neck for a moment before John nodded. “And you can buy the first round for getting out of the scene downstairs.”

“Yeah. But I get to be the one to tell Stiles where the condom came from.” John tried to look a little innocent. “Tuesday. Barring werewolves.”

As he soaped himself down in the shower, he tried not to grin too much at the thought of Stiles’ reaction and resolutely turned his thoughts to next Tuesday.


End file.
